


warm on a cold night

by hit_it_with_a_shoe



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol, Drugs, Friends to Lovers, Gay Mac, Grinding, Homoerotic 80s movies, Internalized Homophobia, Karate moves, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-30 11:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_it_with_a_shoe/pseuds/hit_it_with_a_shoe
Summary: “Anyway, Top Gun isn’t about the girl. It’s about some sweet beefcakes just-” he flexes for effect, “flying planes, playing volleyball, shooting at shit - just being hard. It’s an action movie, man, it’s about the action.”Dennis has had a terrible week. Mac sets out to create the perfect 'Dudes Night In' for him.Things evolve from there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first macdennis fic. The title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX5f0NcqlMs).
> 
> If, like me, you've never seen Top Gun, here's a link to the [closing scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mng_tvLBH7Y), which is referenced. Also, the link to George Michael's Faith, if you want a bit of a refresher. Enjoy!

_ Thursday  _

 

_ 8:03 PM _

 

_ Philadelphia, PA _

 

“It’s not going to fit.”

 

“Shut up, dude, yes it will. I just need to- 

 

“Mac, I’m telling you, the hole is way too small. You’ll break it.”

 

“No, dude, it’s all about the technique.”

 

“Technique? That’s what you called it when you karate kicked a hole in the door in the first place!”

 

Mac ignores Dennis, bracing his palm on the locked cabinet door and tugging their last bottle of tequila through the splintered hole. 

 

“If you hadn’t lost the key, then I wouldn’t have to,” says Mac, “and plus, bro, you have to admit that was a perfectly executed move. Like, just-” he goes a demonstration, sound effects and all, but over-balances and catching his elbow on the counter. 

 

“Give me that,” huffs Dennis, grabbing the bottle. “ _I_ didn’t lose the key,” he spits, “Charlie swallowed it. How was I supposed to know he would literally consume a key? It’s made of metal.”

 

“You put it in a beer bottle, dude,” shrugs Mac, running his bleeding knuckles under the sink, scraped raw from reaching through the jagged cupboard door. 

 

“It was an empty bottle. _Empty_ ,” stresses Dennis, “how should I know that Frank and Charlie would be going around collecting empties and drinking moonshine out of them!”

 

“Wine in a can was a good idea,” says Mac, raising his eyebrows like he has any kind of sway in this argument when his blood is dripping down the kitchen drain.  

 

“Wine in a can,” says Dennis venomously, “was an excellent idea. Moonshine from an empty beer bottle doesn’t make any _sense_.”

 

“Den, do you think Charlie is gonna get his eyesight back?” he looks genuinely concerned. “I told him drinking that much moonshine was like, really bad, but Frank kept cheering him on and I just-”

 

“I don’t know,” growls Dennis, “and I don’t care.” He’s anger is reaching levels of lividity, and he has to put the tequila bottle down before he breaks the stem in the grip of his fist. Mac watches him with wary eyes as he braces his palms on the countertop, white-knuckled. 

 

“Okay, Dennis,” Mac cautions, damaged hand hovering just above Dennis’ shoulder. If he gets blood on Dennis’ shoulder, Dennis is going to lose his _shit_. “Let’s just relax, man. Look, we’ve got our tequila, I stole stuff for margaritas from the bar. We’re gonna have a good night. Just you and me, no Frank, no Dee, no Charlie-”

 

Dennis can’t help the angry grunt he makes at the sound of that bastard’s-

 

“Dude,” Mac’s steady hands guide him over to a chair, and he lets himself be steered into place, Mac’s thumbs digging into his shoulders with just the right amount of pressure. “Don’t worry about it, alright? I’ve got it under control.” 

 

Absently, Dennis watches Mac rummage around in their kitchen drawers for a knife. The sound of the knife scoring into their bare countertop, a lime wedge dragged around the rim of each glass until the white sugar sticks; crystallizes around the rim. Mac’s biceps bulge as he mixes the drinks, expression intent as he pours the tequila, squeezes juice out of the limes. 

 

The threat of a headache dims, retreating from the front of Dennis’ skull, and he allows himself to lose some of the tension in his shoulders. “You know what? You’re right,” says Dennis, settling in his chair, “this is good for me. Slow down, you know? Just appreciate life.”

 

“Exactly, man” says Mac, grinning, “that’s a huge part of martial arts you know, like accessing your inner self or whatever. I’ve been meditating.”  He bends down to check the levels of the drinks up close, pouring a little more into the left glass with narrowed eyes. Heart and soul into a margarita. 

 

“Meditating,” says Dennis, eyebrows raised, “does it work?” 

 

“I don’t really know,” says Mac, getting the guac out of the fridge and peeling the plastic lid off it with busy, domestic movements. “It’s kinda boring, to be honest. I’ve been trying to talk to my inner self but I don’t think inner-Mac has that much to say.”

 

“Well, I’m not a complete stranger to meditation myself,’ offers Dennis. “Back when I was posing as the leader of a very selective group of tree-huggers, I engaged in a tantric lovemaking experience with a bodacious hippie-”

 

“Dude,” says Mac, his bored tone diluting the sense of deep satisfaction lifting Dennis’ mood. His shoulders are slumped dramatically. “Can we not bring chicks into it tonight? I just wanna have a dudes night in, or whatever. Just you, me, and Tom Cruise.” He punctuates the list with a few karate chops, finishing with a bright, expectant grin. 

 

“And Kelly McGillis,” points out Dennis, which isn’t saying much. Top Gun has far too little female nudity. 

 

“Nah, she has a frog face,” says Mac, nose wrinkling. “Anyway, Top Gun isn’t about the girl. It’s about some sweet beefcakes just-” he flexes for effect, “flying planes, playing volleyball, shooting at shit - just being hard. It’s an action movie, man, it’s about the action.”

 

“There’s more than one type of action, Mac,” says Dennis, eyebrows raised. If it was a year ago, the inference would have had Mac grinning, but it’s not, and Mac doesn’t. 

 

“Whatever, bro,” Mac huffs. His shirt reads _Boys Club_. Dennis lets it go.

 

He follows Mac and his margarita out into the sitting room, swiping the bottle of tequila, four-fifths full, to bring along with them. Their living room is pristine. There are two electric blankets, one on either side of their sofa. The lights are comfortably low, curtains closed against the passing traffic. The carpet has been vacuumed, the pillows puffed, and it smells a little overwhelmingly of fabreeze. 

 

“Nice work, man,” says Dennis, surveying the room with a warm kind of satisfaction. 

 

Mac lights up. “Thanks, dude,” he says, catching Dennis in his bright gaze for a moment. “That’s not even the best part!” He bounds away, setting the tray and the glass down on their coffee table. “See, I got you a chicken salad from that French place you like, which is a good balance of greens and protein, so it’s like good for packing on muscle,” he sprawls back onto the couch, bouncing a little with enthusiasm, “but it also has a shit-ton of iron and vitamin C, which I thought was only in oranges, but apparently it’s in spinach, too-”

 

“Mac,” says Dennis, “ _Mac._ ”

 

“Yeah?” He’s holding up the little plastic container of dressing, which he clearly remembered to order on the side. 

 

“Thanks, man,” says Dennis. Mac’s face goes soft and proud. He’s so easy, Dennis thinks. The deep, unpleasant feeling of secondhand embarrassment for Mac’s vulnerability singes the insides of his skin. 

 

But tonight is for relaxation. He can be thankful, he can be good to Mac, if Mac is just that easy for it. Dennis takes a breath. Resets. 

 

He settles beside Mac, watching him arrange their food, set up the movie. He bats away over-enthusiastic hands trying to tuck the electric blanket around his legs, but ultimately relaxes back into the couch with a satisfied sigh. His eyes close, and he allows himself the pleasure of no responsibility for anything. 

 

“On March third, nineteen sixty-nine,” Mac whispers, reading the text opening, “the United States Navy established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots.” 

 

Dennis could probably recite the text on the screen in front of them back to Mac in almost complete detail, but he lets Mac believe that this is helpful. Despite himself, Dennis finds that the anticipation builds with Mac’s buzzing excitement, until Dennis is mouthing along with Mac’s words. 

 

He opens his eyes to the title, bold across the screen. “Top Gun,” they whisper in unison, and Dennis feels the first genuine smile in - honestly, he can’t remember - appear on his face. Mac grins back. 

 

“Oh,” says Mac, sitting up with that excited look he gets, the pre-emptive pride he feels when he’s done something to be appreciated. If he keeps interrupting the movie every few seconds though, it’s going to be a problem. “I got us something else.” 

 

He rummages around in a plastic bag stuffed under the coffee table, pulling out a pretty serious sandwich bag of weed. 

 

“Did you get that off Cricket?” says Dennis, grinning, “was there money involved, or was it just purely sexual?”

 

“What? Ew, gross, Dennis, what the fuck,” Mac leans away, nose wrinkling. “I got it from some high school bitch. He tried to fuck me over, but I intimidated him into selling it to me cheap as shit.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Dennis, over the mutter of the flight controller in the background, “is this the gay one?”

 

“What are you talking about?” says Mac. He turns his face away from Dennis, his soft, preoccupied face in profile as he unpacks the papers, a lighter, and a grinder, pulling what looks like a homemade filter from his front pocket. 

 

“That emo twink. Gives you discounts because he’s got a big gay crush on you, dude.” says Dennis, eyebrows raised. “Did you seriously not pick up on that?”

 

“No, Dennis,” says Mac, box of papers in hand as he rolls his eyes, “I _intimidated_ him. He hiked the price up like, super high, and then I gave him an ocular patdown, really let him know what I’m about. And he was looking all-” Mac narrows his eyes, lips pursed, “and then I was like-” he raises his chin, broad shoulders set wide as he looks Dennis up and down, “and then he totally gave it up.”

 

“An ocular patdown,” repeats Dennis, fighting down an incredulous laugh. 

 

“Yeah, dude. Usually they’re undetectable, but sometimes you gotta make it obvious so your potential opponent doesn’t try anything. Like, this kid totally knew that I could just-” he makes a chopping motion, “and neutralise the threat.” He shrugs, “which would, in this case, be him.” 

 

“A high-school aged weed dealer,” says Dennis, levelling him with a look.

 

“Well,” says Mac, resting his elbows on his knees in a pause, “technically yes, but- look, that’s not the point, Dennis. I got us some cheap weed because I’m a badass, and everyone can see that.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure he was very intimidated by your black belt in, what was it again?” It’s a surefire way to get that needled, defensive look on Mac’s face; a clenched jaw giving way to a put-upon condescending tone.

 

“Shut up, dude,” mutters Mac, turning his attention back to the papers in his hand. If there was anyone else here, he knows that Mac would insist on his skills in a whole range of martial arts that he can barely grasp the name of, but it’s just them. Dennis watches Mac pack the grinder, and something inside him settles quietly into place. 

 

Mac rolls joints with an ease of confidence that otherwise never quite fits right on his shoulders. It’s a sight that Dennis can revisit in his memories like he’s travelling through time, moment to moment: Mac in their first year of high school in dirty jeans and a smile too big for his face; Mac perplexed at Dennis’ hesitance at huffing glue in Charlie’s basement, but rolling a joint for him anyway, eyes glazed with dizzying inhalants as he showed Dennis how to make his own filters; Mac in a shirt reading _It’s the most wonderful time for a beer_ , a girl tucked against his side as she played the dumb blonde to draw all of Mac’s attention away from Dennis, even though Dennis hadn’t seen him for months, preoccupied as he was with barely passing his college classes. 

 

Or, just Mac and a quiet night in, an action movie playing at a lowered volume. Dark hair falling over his forehead as he hums along to the background music, drags his tongue along the paper, tucks it tightly and twists it with deft fingertips. 

 

He tucks it between his lips and runs a lighter over the end, sparking it. 

 

“Dude,” says Dennis, holding his hand out. It’s his night, he deserves this.

 

Mac glances at him from the corner of his eye, and then ignores him, taking a slow inhale. He holds it in his lungs for an obnoxiously long time. Dennis rolls his eyes. 

 

“I bought it _and_ rolled it, dude, I get first hit.” Smoke streams from his mouth, and he passes the joint to Dennis with a lazy, little smile. On screen, pilots race through serene, pink skies. 

  
Dennis hides his answering smile with his hand as he lifts the joint to his lips and lets the smoke wash into his lungs. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Time passes in a haze of a bronzed Tom Cruise, the buzz of aircrafts in flight, and Mac, pink-cheeked and smiling as he refills their empty margarita glasses with straight shots of tequila. 

 

“ _ That lovin’ feeling _ ,” sings Dennis, voice wavering, intoxicated by a shared half bottle of tequila between them, “ _ you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling _ .” His head lolls on the couch as he looks over to Mac with a loose smile. 

 

“Hello, Pete Mitchell,” says Mac, grinning, like it’s his line, like he’s the love interest approaching Tom Cruise’s character onscreen.  

 

Dennis smiles, eyes heavy-lidded. His arm rests along the back of the couch, fingertips just touching Mac’s neck. He presses down almost imperceptibly. 

 

The last scene of Top Gun plays out in front of them. Tom Cruise cups Kate McGillis’ cheek. She touches his wrist like she’s making sure he’s there, like she’s grounding herself in him. They’re silhouetted against the light of the window. The movie ends just before they kiss. 

 

“ _ Baby _ ,” Dennis sings along as the credits roll, “ _ baby, baby, baby _ .” 

 

Mac lets out a drunken whoop as one of the actors flexes shirtless. Dennis slaps at his shoulder with a lazy grin. 

 

Mac’s eyes are rimmed red when he recoils from Dennis, loud with a rolling belly laugh. He’s further away now, eyes squeezed shut in a smile as he sinks back into the cushions. Dennis takes him in; the particular, sweet set of his mouth, the dazed joy in his expression. 

 

The slight drunken flush of his throat calls to Dennis’ clouded mind.

 

“Music,” Dennis declares, instead of dwelling on it. He sweeps a dizzy hand through the air, “put some music on.”

 

Mac laughs, and heaves himself up, stumbling a little, catching his shin on the table. “ _ Ooh _ ,” he huffs, getting his balance. He grins up at Dennis when he manages, and Dennis claps for him, giving a little cheer. His head is too heavy, and he rests it on the back of the couch, tilting so he can watch Mac’s expression. 

 

The sheer, proud brightness of Mac’s gaze is momentarily overwhelming, and Dennis can’t pick it apart through the haze of weed and alcohol. 

 

“Good music,” Dennis reminds him, “none of that- none of those Chili Peppers. No _ trash _ .”

 

“Shut the fuck up, dude,” says Mac, smiling. A few strands of hair flop into his eyes as he shakes his head. Dennis tops up his glass, thumbing crystallized sugar off the rim. 

 

He watches quietly as Mac fumbles with their speaker. They found it on the side of the road across from Charlie's apartment, and had won it, over the other members of the gang, through threats of physical violence and complex subterfuge. It only works if you plug it in just right, but it’s stuck with them well over the past few years. 

 

Mac grunts in frustration, fiddling with the plug on the side. “You gotta unplug it and plug it back in,” says Dennis, craning his neck to see. 

 

“I know, dude,” says Mac, jamming it into the socket. 

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” cautions Dennis, heaving himself up. He rests his hand on Mac’s shoulder, the nape of his neck, “you gotta treat her gently, like it’s her very first time.” He takes the plug from Mac’s drunken fingers, and Mac watches him with hesitant eyes. 

 

“It’s a speaker,” says Mac.

 

“No,” says Dennis. He’s not getting it, but that’s to be expected. “It’s a woman. Or, well- a man, in your case.” Mac nods. “And you’re just-” he sets the plug right at the edge of the socket, “easing in, just like that, alright?” Mac’s eyes flick between Dennis’ face, and the plug sliding into the socket. “Nice and slow, until it just settles… right into place.” 

 

“Uh huh,” says Mac, wetting that pretty bottom lip with a pink tongue. His tequila-glazed eyes rove from Dennis’ fingertips to his mouth. There’s a chaotic, fluttering feeling at the pit of Dennis’ stomach. He touches Mac’s face, tilts his chin up until they’re eye to eye as the music starts. 

 

“Are you- is this church music? Come on, man,” Dennis huffs. He dives into the annoyance as the organ music plays, fighting the buzz in his fingertips that lingers just from touching Mac’s cheek, the vulnerable skin at his throat.

 

“No dude, it’s-”

 

_ Oh I guess it would be nice _ , sings George Micheal,  _ if I could touch your body _ , Mac joins in: “cause I know not everybody,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows, “has got a body like you.”

 

Dennis sighs, unsuccessfully fighting a smile. “So you only listen to gay music now, or what?”

 

Mac rolls his eyes. “First of all,” he says, mouth pulling down in exasperation, “this song is a classic, so you can eat shit.” He holds a finger up, counting off the points he makes. He’s picking up all these little mannerisms now, like the little swing of the hips when he’s being dramatic. “Second of all,” he continues, “so what if I’m gay and I like gay music, I-”

 

“Hey,” Dennis interrupts, laying a hand on Mac’s sternum, “Mac, calm down, man.” He lets himself move to the beat a little, raising his eyebrows. “You’re totally right, dude, it is a classic.” 

 

“I know it is, Dennis,” says Mac, still exasperated.

 

“Well come on, then,” says Dennis, a hand on Mac’s shoulder, another steady hand just resting on his chest, “dance with me.”

 

_ ‘Cause I gotta have faith _ , sings George Michael,  _ I gotta have faith, faith, faith.  _

 

Dennis feels loose and drunk and happy. Mac’s bright eyes are almost shut with the force of his smile as he steps to the song. His hand lands heavy on Dennis’ shoulder, his hips swinging clumsily to the beat. 

 

Dennis lets himself give in, just for the moment. He anchors an arm around Mac’s waist, his other hand at the curve of Mac’s shoulder, thumb resting by the hollow of his throat. 

 

Allowed to touch, now that alcohol and weed have electrified his blood. Allowed to look and be looked at in return. 

 

“ _ Baby! _ ” they sing, and Dennis watches Mac throw his head back as he shouts it, laughter curling in his smile. A hot breath catches in Dennis’ throat, and he sways forward, pressing his forehead into Mac’s shoulder. He’s feigning drunker than he is. Their bodies touch, hips bumping with the rhythm. Mac’s palm is hot through the fabric of Dennis’ shirt. 

 

Should he? Dennis knows he can. He knows the way Mac looks at him, knows that Mac wants to touch. 

 

His hand tightens on Mac’s waist. He exhales against the hollow of Mac’s throat, feels the warmth of his body, the loose happiness in the way he dances. He thinks about how good it would be to kiss him -  to kiss his mouth, his skin. He lets the corner of his lips catch across Mac’s collarbone like an accident. 

 

He can feel Mac singing; the notes rumble in his throat. Mac’s fingers lace with his, and there’s a disorientating moment where he steps back, away. 

 

He’s smiling, singing, “ _ Before this river, becomes an ocean _ ,” as he raises their joined hands and does a little twirl under them, like they’re a sweet elderly couple on the dancefloor at bingo night. “ _ Before you throw my heart back on the floor _ .”

 

He tries to imagine himself growing old, but he can’t. Logically, he knows aging is a natural process, but he isn’t able to visualise the wrinkles, the sagging, the aching joints. 

 

Mac dances away, all elbows and too-stiff shoulders, and Dennis lets his eyes rove over the lines of Mac’s smiling face. Crows feet by the eyes from laughter, but the story of a rough, lonely life giving a certain edge around the mouth. He can see Mac getting older, thinks about him shuffling around the dancefloor in his seventies, picking fights with geriatrics and flirting with the young nurses. 

 

The male nurses, he reminds himself. Or, maybe he’ll be with someone in his old age. Dennis has always absently thought of Mac being alone in his later years, holed up in prison like his father, or tucked at the back of some run-down nursing home. 

 

Mac being married has always been something of a foreign concept. Mac married to a man, somehow even more so. He tries to visualise Mac with a husband; someone quite handsome, no doubt. Someone who makes Mac smile. Who tolerates the karate moves and the angry outbursts. Who lets himself be coddled and stifled by Mac’s strident overprotectiveness, who tolerates his political incorrectness, his strange excitement, his deeply rooted familial issues. 

 

Someone who loves him. 

 

“Dude,” says Mac, laying a heavy hand on Dennis’ shoulder. Dennis becomes aware that the music has stopped. “You ok?”

 

“I- yes,” says Dennis, brow furrowed, “just a lot on my mind.”

 

“Oh, man,” says Mac, and there’s that beaming smile again, so ready to help, to support, “that’s no good, let's find a way to stop that shit.”

 

“Weird night,” mutters Dennis, allowing himself to be lead over to the couch. 

 

“Yeah, dude, you seem kinda out of it,” says Mac, tidying the low table, which mostly involves moving the empty guac bowl to the floor, and shifting around their margarita glasses. “You were staring at me for like, a full three minutes.”

 

“No I wasn’t,” says Dennis, but the protest sounds absent minded even to his own ears. He wobbles as Mac sits down. Dennis lowers himself unsteadily on the floor like that’s what he was aiming for originally, and settles his forehead against Mac’s knee. His eyes shut tightly against the sick, swaying feeling in his stomach. 

 

Mac’s fingers comb through the hair falling over Dennis’ forehead, smoothing it back, running through the thick strands. There’s a quick, platonic ruffle, and then Mac’s hand pulls away. As fast as he can, even as the world sways with his movements, Dennis grabs Mac’s wrist, and sets the hand back in his hair. 

 

“Feels nice,” mumbles Dennis, eyes closed as Mac huffs a quiet laugh above him, and then Mac’s careful fingers run through his hair again, slow and soothing. Dennis lets his cheek press against Mac’s thigh as he takes slow, deep breaths, trying not to think about anything in particular.  

 

“I like you like this,” says Mac, “you’re, like, calmer, dude. More real.” He really does talk all kinds of shit when he’s high.

 

“I’m always real,” says Dennis, nose wrinkling, drowsy and affronted. 

 

Mac laughs, sweet like a giggle, and shifts on the couch, getting more comfortable, but careful not to disturb Dennis’ resting place on his thigh. “Yeah, but,” he’s quiet for a moment, “I got the feeling like maybe you felt weird about me being gay, or whatever. Like, bro, you were super cool about me coming out, but I think you never, like-” 

 

He trails off abruptly, and Dennis absolutely does not want to continue this conversation, but if they move past it now, they’ll have to have it when he’s sober. He makes a semi-encouraging noise against Mac’s knee. 

 

“You never touch me anymore,” says Mac, smoothing his thumb at the soft skin just behind Dennis’ ear, intent like he can avoid the words he’s just let out into the room. 

 

Dennis turns, brow furrowed. He looks over his shoulder at Mac, to see his face tilted away, avoiding eye contact. “I touch you, dude,” he insists, reaching out to poke two fingers against Mac’s hip. 

 

Mac rubs at the targeted hip, disgruntled, batting Dennis’ hand away. “Come on, man, for real. I feel like you’re uncomfortable with touching me, or even like, opening up to me emotionally, now that I’m gay. I just want you to feel okay around me, you know? Because I’m still your bro, dude, and-”

 

Dennis barely restrains an eyeroll, and he elbows Mac in the shins a little as he heaves himself up from the floor. He turns around on unsteady legs, and drops to his knees on the edge of the couch, resting a clumsy elbow on the back of the couch, behind Mac’s head. 

 

Mac looks at him with wide eyes. Dennis blinks, trying to keep his balance. He very deliberately places his hand on Mac’s shoulder to steady himself. 

 

“Mac,” he says, “baby,” he lets himself sway forward, nose pressed to Mac’s cheek, lips almost brushing Mac’s skin as he speaks. “Of course you’re my bro.” He noses along Mac’s cheekbone, intimate and deceptively sweet. “You’ll always be my very best bud.” He enunciates. Seals it with a deliberate kiss, right on the blush darkening Mac’s cheek. 

 

Mac’s exhales heavily when Dennis pulls back, like he’d been terrified to even breathe, and startle Dennis away. “Yeah, dude,” he says, shifty eyes stuck on the opposite wall. His fingers twist restlessly at the fabric of his jeans. He clears his throat. “Good.”

 

“You good, man?” says Dennis. He’s perpendicular to Mac on the couch, watching his face in profile. “Feel better?”

 

Mac glances at Dennis for a brief second, and then shifts uncomfortably in the couch cushions. “I guess.” There’s that bashful gaze, that downturned mouth. 

 

“That’s the spirit,” says Dennis, giving Mac a good, solid thump on the shoulder. Then, the settles in beside him, throwing an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. 

 

They sit side by side, thigh to thigh, with Mac curled uncomfortably against the drunk warmth of Dennis’ body. “Relax, man,” says Dennis, rubbing Mac’s arm. He tucks two fingers under Mac’s 

jaw, tilts his head up so that their foreheads are almost touching. “There you go,” he says, smiling, looking right into Mac’s wide brown eyes, “I got you, Mac,” he says. He sways just a little closer, a heart palpitation-worth of  _ you could have it, tonight, if you wanted. _

 

He wants Mac to feel it. To understand that the chance is right in front of him and he’s too afraid to take it. 

 

The vulnerability in Mac’s face is arresting. Dennis hears his own sharp little inhale, and something like shock makes him move his hand from Mac’s skin. This is why he never pursues this  _ thing _ between them. It’s so far beyond his control, beyond Mac’s control, even. They’re both careering off the edge of what they know, and there’s no guarantee of landing safely. 

 

“I’m hungry,” mutters Mac, his eyes darting away as he shrugs Dennis’ arm off his shoulder. He goes to the kitchen, rubbing at flush at the back of his neck. 

 

Dennis sits alone, eyes slipping out of focus as they rove over the paused end credits of Top Gun. 

 

Time passes. Dennis isn’t sure how much, but eventually Mac returns with the half empty bag of tortilla chips. He sits so close that their shoulders are pressed together, and Dennis lets out a slow breath.

 

There’s the rustle and crunch of Mac eating. Dennis slouches, head tilting to rest on the back of the couch. The ceiling paint is chipped in places, and he blankly follows the pattern of branching fissures, letting his temple rest against Mac’s solid upper arm. He taps his fingers on his thighs. Mac’s elbow brushes Dennis’ side. Dennis’ knee wavers, unsure whether to rest against Mac’s or not. 

 

The humming is so quiet that Dennis can barely catch it - some guitar-heavy melody that he half-recognises from Mac’s questionable collection. The sound of Mac’s voice like this is comforting, and Dennis’ eyelids grow heavy as he glares up at the ceiling. He stifles a yawn, leaning a little more heavily into Mac’s steady warmth. 

 

Hesitantly, Mac’s arm wraps around his shoulders. Dennis draws a quiet inhale, afraid of shattering the rare calm. 

 

“Den?” whispers Mac. 

 

His phone chimes; once, twice, three times. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Dennis, as Mac shifts around, yanks his phone out of his back pocket. The arm around Dennis’ shoulder leaves as he scrolls through his texts. 

 

“Oh,” says Mac brightly, “Dee says Charlie is ok. His eyesight cleared right back up!” He reads right off the screen: “Not that you assholes care.” He laughs, raises his arm to take a selfie. Their cheeks press together, a bright smile and a half-frame of a disgruntled frown. 

 

There’s the tapping, chiming sound of Mac and Dee texting back and forth, while Dennis sits next to Mac, ignored.

 

“I’m going to bed,” declares Dennis, heaving himself up off the couch. There’s a little wobble as he stands up, and Mac’s hand goes to his waist to steady him. 

 

“Aw, Dennis, come on,” says Mac, and  _ now  _ his attention is on Dennis. Now that he’s leaving the room. Typical. “It’s barely midnight, dude.”

 

“And already,” says Dennis, “your attention has wandered.” He stalks off to his room, ignoring the halfhearted way Mac calls for him. Dennis throws himself onto his bed like a sulking teenager, huffing into the pillows. He closes his eyes, and waits for Mac to follow. 

  

\---

 

Mac’s voice fades in and out, and Dennis follows it back from the edge of sleep. 

 

“Dennis.  _ Dennis _ . Are you awake?” 

 

“I am now, asshole,” mutters Dennis, but the words are lazy with alcohol and sleep. He is dimly aware that Mac is too close; an abstract shape in the dark through sleep-heavy eyes. There’s a palm planted in the mattress on either side of Dennis’ shoulders. “What are you-”

 

It’s more of a confused crash than a kiss; too dark for either of them to judge distance or positioning. Mac’s teeth catch harshly under Dennis’ bottom lip. The hot inside of his mouth, a damp breath, the scrape of stubble. Dennis can feel the dents that Mac’s teeth left in his skin radiating pain. It’s a bad kiss.  _ Christ _ , it’s terrible, but Dennis is sick with adrenaline, and the knowledge that it could end any second. 

 

“Dude,” says Mac, a harsh whisper between breaths. He shifts, a hand landing on Dennis’ shoulder. Dennis flounders, barely awake yet, but Mac grabs him by the bicep, moves like he’s sure of himself, presses Dennis’ arm into the mattress. 

 

Mac’s grip is too tight, but Dennis doesn’t care, just skims his fingertips down Mac’s spine, presses harsh with a free hand at Mac’s hip to pull his body closer. Their noses bump, sparking something like a headache. Mac’s lips drag messily across Dennis’ cheek before their mouths meet.

 

There’s a hot little moan at the back of Mac’s throat when Dennis licks into his mouth. His fingers flex around Dennis’ bicep; a harsh hold and an easy mouth. For all the desperation between breaths, Mac’s mouth is soft, his tongue almost reverent. 

 

He kisses like he wants to take his time; his body moves like he never learned how. 

 

Dennis clings, too disoriented to do anything but grab and kiss and breathe him in. A desperate arm around Mac’s waist, a hand twisted in the sheets, arm flexing in Mac’s hold. He gives as good as he gets, shifting in the sheets to lean up and deepen the kiss, hooking his leg around Mac’s calf, a knee at his thigh to urge him closer. 

 

Their frantic kisses break in a hectic rush of air, and then Dennis is yanking at the hem of Mac’s shirt, ignoring the sound of seams ripping as he pulls it over Mac’s head. Back to kissing, and the slick heat of swollen lips. 

 

He touches Mac, grabs at his body, slides buzzing palms over bare skin. It was always Dennis’ vague imagining that kissing Mac would be like kissing a girl, only with more beard, and… harder. 

 

In reality, kissing Mac is a separate experience entirely. It’s undeniably Mac on top of him, touching him, holding him down. Undeniably Mac in those sweet little moans, escaping between breaths like he can’t hold them back. He tastes like tequila, smells like home, touches Dennis like he’s starved for it. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” breathes Dennis, trying to get ahold of his thoughts between frantic presses of lips. He feels Mac’s smug smile against his mouth, Mac’s knee at his thigh, urging his legs apart in the sheets. Dennis drags his palms over the muscle in Mac’s shoulders, and down over his chest, the line of his stomach. He thumbs at the slight softness there, above the muscle, and feels Mac flex his abs. 

 

“I like it,” gasps Dennis, nosing along Mac’s hot cheek, gripping Mac’s hips, touching him, holding him, “it’s okay, I like it,” promised between messy breaths. He drags kisses under Mac’s jaw, but Mac finds his mouth again with a groan, grasping at the collar of Dennis’ shirt like he can pull it off. 

 

“Your stupid shirt is so fucking-” Mac mutters, and Dennis gets ahold of his frantic hands, slowing him with a reassuring kiss even as Dennis takes over, working his button-down open quickly, yanking it apart. Mac’s hands help him sit up, and then Mac’s hot mouth is under his jaw, rough breaths and soft lips on that spot just below his ear that makes him squirm. 

 

Dennis fights with his sleeves, yanking them off and throwing his balled-up designer shirt to the floor. He pulls Mac on top of him again, skin to skin. Mac’s erection presses hot against his hip.

 

A moan drops, unbidden from Dennis’ mouth when Mac ruts against his hip. Hot and hard and  _ real _ , after all these years. Dennis grips at Mac’s hips, spreads his legs, lets his eyes close as Mac noses along his jaw, leaves raw, biting kisses down his throat. 

 

“Oh fuck,” groans Mac, pressing his face into Dennis’ throat. 

 

“Yeah, you like that?” murmurs Dennis, thumbing sweetly at Mac’s damp hairline. 

 

“No, dude,” grunts Mac, “oh, man, I do not feel good.” He lifts himself up, wobbling a little on his locked elbows. In the faint light, Dennis can see the crease of his brow, the damp sweat on his forehead. 

 

“Goddammit,” sighs Dennis, thumping a fist against the mattress, “goddammit, you  _ asshole _ , Mac.”

 

“I’m sorry, dude,” says Mac, sitting up, fumbling for the lamp at the side of Dennis’ bed. He switches on the light, and there he is: pale and sweaty and drunk in Dennis’ lap. “I got so nervous when you went to your room, I finished off the tequila like, too fast, man.” 

 

Something a little victorious settles in Dennis’ chest, but the overriding emotion is still frustration. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” says Dennis, “you are a grown man! You own a bar! How can you not hold your  tequila?” 

 

“I don’t know, dude,” moans Mac, shoulders slumped. He runs his hands over his pale cheeks, eyes screwed shut. “Oh fucking shit,” he grunts, and then pushes off Dennis’ lap, and wobbles his way to the bathroom, disappearing behind a half-shut door. 

 

The sound of retching is a boner-killer, if ever there was one. 

 

Dennis rolls his eyes at the dark ceiling, and then pulls a pillow over his face for a moment, like that will give him quiet to think. 

 

_ Twenty years _ , he thinks. Twenty years, and they didn’t even fuck. Twenty years, and Dennis is half-hard as Mac vomits up a bottle of tequila the en-suite bathroom. 

 

A pitiful groan echoes from the room next door. Dennis heaves a sigh, rolls over, and gets to his feet. More intoxicated than he originally thought, he makes his way carefully across the room, and into the bathroom, wrinkling his nose at the acerbic smell of vomit. 

 

Mac’s bare back is pale under the bathroom lights as he crouches on the tile, hunched over the toilet bowl. The scattering of freckles across his shoulders is stark, and Dennis is strangely relieved. Mac is neither perfect, nor the disaster that Dennis has been making him out to be in his head for the past year or so. 

 

Dennis sights. “Alright, buddy?” he tries, leaning against the sink. 

 

Mac closes his eyes, and rests his cheek on the seat, which is...disgusting. “I’m fine,” says Mac, “I’m just-” he takes a slow breath, “I’ll be good to go in a minute.”

 

“Absolutely not,” asserts Dennis, mouth twisted in disgust, “if you think you're putting your mouth anywhere near me-”

 

“Oh, dude, no,” laughs Mac, and Dennis narrows his eyes. Being partially rejected by a sweaty drunk man hunched over on a bathroom floor is not exactly a high point. “I mean like, good to leave the bathroom and go to sleep.”

 

Dennis has no reply to that. He settles for glaring at Mac’s shoulders. The retching seems to have died down, but Mac props up his head over the toilet bowl, just in case. His hair is a damp mess, and sweat shines across his skin at the nape of his neck, the dip of his spine. Dennis still wants to touch him. 

 

He clears his throat. “Mac, I hope you know that I’m not- like you” he says. Mac somehow looks disapproving with just a tilt of his head, eyes shut tight, cheeks smushed in his hands. 

 

“Not gay, dude,” says Mac, and it sounds accepting, toneless. “I get it.”

 

It doesn’t feel right. Dennis huffs, looks up to the ceiling. Tries to realign himself. “Exactly,” says Dennis, “I was just a little curious. Bi-curious, if you want to define it. A lot of men are.”

 

“Whatever, dude,” groans Mac, hands covering his eyes as he bows his head. “You know what?” he says, slightly muffled, “just leave, Dennis. You don’t need to like, watch me puke my guts out in your stupid bathroom, okay? You’re not doing shit, just go.”

 

How Dennis is left feeling the childish one in this situation, he has no idea. 

 

“I’m- I’m doing shit,” says Dennis, “I came in here to-” he looks around, “get you some water, man. Help the hangover, dude.”

 

He washes out the cup that usually holds his toothbrush, and fills it with cold water. He drinks two glasses worth himself, and then fills it a final time. He steadies a hand on the wall as he sits down heavily beside Mac, spilling a little water on his jeans. Most of it remains, and Mac takes it and drinks in a sad sort of silence, every sip swallowed loudly in the small bathroom. 

 

When he’s done, he presses the cool glass to his forehead, red-rimmed eyes settling on Dennis. They roam over his body, his face, and Dennis fights the urge to touch his own kiss-swollen mouth in memory, when Mac’s eyes linger a little too long there. 

 

They look at each other. Two roommates in their forties, sprawled on the bathroom floor. So starved for touch, they’ll rutt against each other in the dark. So deprived of affection, they’ll take a half-filled glass of water as sincere apology. So deprived of romance, they’ll fall in love. 

 

Is that what this is? He looks at Mac’s pale face, the purple, like twin half-moon bruises under his eyes. He wants brush the soft hair back from his forehead, put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

 

“What if I was?” he says finally, voice rough, quiet. He taps Mac’s hip with his foot to get the glazed look off his face. “Hypothetically.”

 

“Hypothetically what, dude?” says Mac, shifting so his back is against the toilet bowl, legs spread like they landed there by accident, knee touching Dennis’ calf. They sit, slumped, facing each other, less than an arm’s length away. Mac’s face is hesitant, tired. 

 

“Hypothetically… into the idea of being...with a man,” he manages. The word gets stuck at the back of his throat, lodged there uncomfortably. 

 

Mac narrow his eyes for a moment, and then sighs, expression loosening. “I don’t know dude,” he says, shrugging, “what we just did was gay. For me, at least. Pretty fucking gay, dude.” He sets the glass down too heavily on the tile floor. The sound is jarring. He levels Dennis with an intense look, for the state he’s in. “Was it straight? For you?”

 

Dennis barks a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Of course it wasn’t fucking straight, I was having-” he struggles, “heavy petting, with a man. With you.”

 

“Oh my God,” says Mac, and then he laughs, “what the fuck, dude. Why are we having this conversation?” 

 

A smile creeps up on Dennis’ mouth without permission. He takes a shaky breath. He flattens his palms on his thighs, ducks his head to get his face straight. 

 

“Better?” says Dennis. Some of the colour has returned to Mac’s cheeks, and he’s a little less sweaty. 

 

Mac sighs, smile a little sad at the corner. “Yeah, dude. I’m good.” 

 

They help each other up off the floor. Dennis makes Mac swig three shots of mouthwash, and he then sends him off to bed while he finishes brushing his teeth. 

 

Dennis’ reflection has red-rimmed eyes, and drink-flushed cheeks. His mouth is full with Mac’s kisses, and a pink mark fades at his neck. If he tries, he can still feel the rough of Mac’s teeth at the skin under his bottom lip, and the bite of Mac’s fingers on his bicep. 

 

He spits, rinses. Gargles with mouthwash. He thinks about waking up beside Mac tomorrow morning. 

 

He fumbles with the bottles around his sink, manages an intoxicated attempt at his nightly skincare routine. The makeup comes off, the face scrub applied, his skin moisturised. He feels a little more like a real person when he’s done. A person capable of making decisions. He meets his own eyes in the mirror. 

 

When he opens the door to the half-dark of the bedroom, he can already hear Mac’s light snores. Dennis sighs, and strips out of his clothes to his underwear. He slides under the covers, and looks at Mac’s sleeping face in the warm light of his bedside lamp. There’s a few silver hairs in his beard. He thinks again about Mac getting old.

 

Dennis touches Mac’s sleeping shoulder. He leans over to turn out the lamp. 

 

Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> I'm @ronaldmcbustanut on tumblr


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